


Water Witch

by ShadowsOffense



Series: Arlathan's din'anshiral AU [2]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe of an Alternate Universe, Arlathan is horrible, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, Gen, The Fade, fav is problematic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-18
Updated: 2017-01-18
Packaged: 2018-09-18 07:09:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 923
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9373700
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShadowsOffense/pseuds/ShadowsOffense
Summary: Yes, this is just copy and paste for the series:Ok, there is a lot of background stuff to read, written by other authors, if you want to try this series. It's really good, so by all means go for it. But don't start here. You will be very, very lost. Read at least the first few chapters of Feynite's Looking Glass and then some of the Baby!Lavellan AUs. Readers' choice, but my favorite, obviously, is the Mana'Din AU... and the Sharkbait AU... and Aili in several AUs... and.... Yeah, just check all of that out first. You can work your way back to this one. In a few months. Probably.Otherwise, please, skip this series.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Feynite](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Feynite/gifts).



Among her husband’s attendants there is a new spirit. Or, rather, there is a new spirit that has been drawn to her husband’s... troubles, offering what it, no doubt, thinks is help. Unlike Sympathy and Comfort, this one, Mythal is certain when she is informed of its nature, is born from Elgar’nan himself. Elgar’nan’s Weariness. 

He can not be permitted to keep it, of course. Not even embodied. That would be far, far too dangerous. She can not loose him to Uthenera. She can not loose any of them. Not yet. 

It will have to be sacrificed. 

Mythal seeks it out in the Dreaming, thinking it better to confront Elgar’nan about it after she already has the spirit in hand. She would be a fool not to see the danger in how easily her own feet make their way to the spirit’s deep, watery pool, but, still, this is a compassion spirit, no matter its exact nature, and Mythal has faced far worse than good intentions.

She is surprised, then, to see the corruption curling at its edges. In water that is too still, yet reflects her own face back at her with an eerie static distortion instead of what, by all rights, should be a smooth and seamless image. The true form of the spirit rests further within, below the surface, and Mythal can not yet see if it is twisted in the same manner. 

Elgar’nan should have dealt with this. Should have _noticed_ this.

The lake is far larger underneath the water than it had been above, space distorted, rippling blues mixed with sickly greens that shade into yellow and brown. The spirit is kneeling at the very bottom, in the very center of its lake. But it is not a peaceful pose; instead it is hunched over, resting its weight on its hands, head bowed, sides moving as if it is panting. Or crying. There is nothing else in the water, but it remains oblivious to her until Mythal is almost upon it. Then its head jerks up, abruptly. Mythal is surprised to see that its eyes are not really eyes at all, but clear pools that reflect back her deformed image the same way the surface of the lake had.

“Who’s there!?” It nearly wails; a cry of alarm more than a question. Its strange eyes widen further as it picks up on some of what is in her thoughts, perceiving deeper into Mythal’s intentions than she would have liked, the way all spirits can when someone’s emotions relate to the spirit’s nature. Mythal is _tired_ of dealing with her family’s fragilities. “You can’t take me!” the spirit pleads. “You can’t! He needs me!”

It sounds _furious_ even though it is begging. Tired and frustrated and enraged and abruptly Mythal realizes what is wrong. Why it is corrupting. It sounds like the wailing, angry sob of a baby that is being kept from sleep. Desperately tired to the point of tantrums and tears. How flattering that this is what was born from the core of her husband’s nature. Still, Mythal can not help but soften to it, a little. It is not just the memories the spirit draws out from her, of her girls, when they were tiny, the hiccupping little sobs in her arms, fists clutching in her hair, and feeling so much love as she looked down at them that.... It is not just old memories. It is that the spirit is still a baby, itself. It is not just wailing _like_ one, it _is_ one.

Which, at least, explains Elgar’nan’s blindness.

This spirit is very strong. Very large. Very powerful. Very angry. Very aggressive. But very young.

And, potentially, more useful that expected.

Well. Mythal has built the bulwark of her reputation on her pity, her compassion. And the spirit is still a deeper, purer, uncorrupted blue. Still salvageable.

“Hush,” Mythal sooths it. “He can not rest. Leaders must sometimes make sacrifices for their people and the world can not stand to loose him yet. But there are others you can help. And you can help me build a world where he _can_ rest. Where it is safe for our children, so that the oldest, the brightest, and the strongest can, at last, let go. Would you like that? To help me?”

“I,” the spirit hesitates. Mythal knows it can feel the shift in her intentions, even if it can not see into her mind the same way it could read into her weariness. “We will make the world safe to rest in?” it asks, childlike hope and doubt mixed together.

“Yes,” Mythal says gently and holds out her hand. Slowly the spirit reaches up to her. “You will need a new name,” she muses. “Still, there is no reason to move far from what you are.” The spirit will be of more use if it stays a spirit, able to reach and touch and manipulate Waking minds. And, if it stays so easily corruptible, no one can say Mythal did not try to do her best by it if things do not work out. “How does Souveri sound?” she asks it.

“It sounds... fine.” Souveri looks back at her, its face still blank, but Mythal’s visage firms a little in the reflective eyes. Its grip is tight in Mythal’s, clinging hard enough for Mythal to feel the strength that, under the right circumstances, could be crushing.

Mythal smiles.

If the Nameless are not yet weary of war, perhaps they can be made to become so.


End file.
